


Time, as a Symptom

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Series: Harold... [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Making Out, Post-Break Up, Self-Indulgent, Spin the Bottle, They're all lesbians, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: Megatron is roped into playing spin the bottle with her ex, her ex's new fling, a group of acquaintances, friends, (former?) enemies, and Rodimus. What could go wrong?





	Time, as a Symptom

**Author's Note:**

> [starscream voice] I'm back on my bullshit

They’re at Drift’s, languishing in the luxury of it all—Megatron will take the piles of crystals and the fecund smell of incense if it means lounging in the 1970s-style conversation pit outfitted with plush carpeting and pillows in the center of the living room—and passing around a bottle of Ketel One that they drink straight, Tailgate excepted, when the front door opens again and a gratingly familiar voice floats in from the hallway.

Megatron stiffens. Rodimus doesn’t falter, keeps up her end of the conversation with Chromedome, but when Megatron looks over, she notes that the bottle is now empty.

When she first sets eyes on Starscream again, all long hair and femme accoutrements, the latter flinches—a glitch in her presentation, carefully smoothed away behind the smirk that follows. “Deadlock,” she calls, “I didn’t know you associated with these…types.”

Wheeljack puts a gentle hand on her shoulder—and that’s new, thinks Megatron, when had she made time for that—and murmurs a cautionary “Starscream, we just got here.”

“It’s Drift,” smiles their host, cutting into Starscream with her teeth, “has been for years now.”

Megatron knows just how many years. She’d spent them all avoiding Starscream with a dedication that belied the small size and intricacy of their local lesbian community.

“Of course,” replies Starscream, tone hinting at a sharp lack of courtesy, “silly of me to forget.”

She locks eyes with Megatron, who fights to look back with something approaching steady calm, while Rodimus slides a possessive hand up her inner thigh.

Starscream traces Rodimus’ trajectory with a delicately arched eyebrow. “Heard you moved to Bed-Stuy, got a new place. That really the best you could do?”

The gold spikes on Rodimus’ leather jacket practically shake with her irritation, and her grip on Megatron’s thigh turns uncomfortably prickly as her nails start to dig in.

“If you ask me,” Rodimus sneers, “it’s a huge improvement on the last one.”

“I didn’t,” says Starscream, “but it’s cute that you think your opinion matters to anyone here.”

Whirl opens her mouth, probably to say something that will descend the room into chaos, but Cyclonus silences her before the fact with her best former-nun expression, which, really, is just her default expression.

Silence reigns. Starscream and Wheeljack are still standing in the entrance to the living room. “Please,” says Megatron, breaking the tension, “come sit with us. We were just…”

She waves her hands at the assembled company—Brainstorm on her fifth shot of whiskey and leaning heavily on Perceptor, Rewind nursing a local IPA and a tiny digital camera—always on the lookout for archival material for her MFA—Skids, looking fondly at Rung while pretending otherwise, Nautica and Nightbeat, hunched up together over a crossword; Rodimus, whose hand inches ever higher up Megatron’s thigh. 

Wheeljack sits down cautiously next to Pipes, who gives her a little half-wave.

Rodimus catches Starscream’s eye and raises the empty bottle in her other hand. “We were just about to play. You up for it?”

“Not if you’re involved,” says Starscream, contemptuously.

“Awww, Screamo,” giggles Rodimus, “you scared?”

“First of all,” is the reply, “it’s High Priestess Starscream of the Bay Ridge Queer Coven.”

Megatron fixates on a fly that’s buzzing happily around one of Drift’s Art Nouveau lamps. Rodimus’ eyebrows disappear under her bangs.

“Secondly,” Starscream continues, “do you really think I’m scared of a trumped-up, manic-panic, low-femme—”

“The term,” snaps Rodimus, “is futch.” 

“Alright!” Rung leaps in, pushing up her glasses in a studied anime manner. “Let’s establish some ground rules. Anyone can opt out at any time, no questions asked. This is an entirely consent-based activity.”

Whirl rolls her eyes. Tailgate gives her a light smack, and adds, “We could also play the With Feelings sidequest.”

“The what,” Pipes interjects.

“The person the bottle lands on gets to ask the spinner a deeply personal and emotional question. Then, they both agree on an activity to do. Making out is default, but it can be something like. I don’t know…exchanging compliments?”

“That,” says Whirl, “is literally the gayest shit I, a dyke, have ever heard in my life.”

“Maybe next time,” Megatron says, as though there will ever be a next time with this exact group.

She wants to say that it’s too dangerous, and when she catches Wheeljack’s eye, it’s clear she’s thinking the same thing. Unwise to lay bare one’s deepest emotions in front of someone like Starscream, whether you’re dating her, have dated her, or will at some point date her, Goddess help you. 

“No,” says Starscream, because of course she does, “I like that idea. Let’s do it.”

Always contrary. It edges under Megatron’s skin, her fingernails, and she notes how Pipes and a few of the others pretend for a moment like they’ve never been interested in playing spin the bottle, with feelings or otherwise, but Rodimus flashes a victory grin, plunks the bottle down on the table at the center of the group, and spins. 

The bottle rotates five, six, seven times, and lands, naturally, on Starscream.

“A deeply personal and emotional question,” says Starscream, tilting her head with a smile, “Ah.”

Rodimus, for her part, stares directly at Starscream and doesn’t look away. Megatron closes her eyes, and thus doesn’t see Starscream when she asks, “Favorite color, and why?”

There’s a stunned silence.

“But that’s so innocuous,” says Nautica, scratching Ravage’s ears as the cat tries not to purr.

“Yeah, come on, Starscream,” says Pipes, “be serious.”

Starscream smiles. It’s an indulgent thing, lush and smooth around the edges. Megatron is quick to recognize this for the warning sign it almost certainly is. 

Rodimus laughs. “All the shit you could ask me, and you waste it on that? Ok, your choice.”

She points at her hair, bright red with an undercut. “Surprise! Ok, what activity do you want to do?”

Starscream shakes her head. “And why.”

“I dunno,” Rodimus says, squinting in thought, “it’s bright, I guess? Colorful? Bold?”

“All qualities you perceive in yourself, of course,” says Starscream, twirling her own dark hair around an index finger, “if that’s true, then, why do you sound so hesitant?”

There it is. Megatron sighs. “Starscream—”

“No,” says Rodimus, “it’s okay. Drift tells me I’m a Leo. Starscream, meet me in the pit in twenty minutes for an ass-kicking.”

“We’re literally already in the pit, Rodimus,” says Perceptor, pointing to the dip in the ground around them.

“It’s a meme,” sighs Rodimus, “Drift, buddy, back me up, here.”

“It’s an old meme,” Drift clarifies.

“From 2014,” adds Rewind.

“What the fuck, man,” says Whirl.

Starscream looks strangely satisfied. Megatron takes in a breath threaded with uncomfortable anticipation. “An ass-kicking,” Starscream says, “do you want that to be our activity?”

“If that’s what you want, I’m game,” Rodimus replies with a smirk.

“Just to clarify, we’re totally talking about making out, right?”

“Obviously.”

Megatron exhales in slow, measured increments, wary of appearing to sigh with relief but needing to release her tension. 

Rodimus crawls over a couple of knees, reaches out with both hands for Starscream’s face and kisses her deeply, eyes closed. Rodimus does everything like this, with complete conviction. It’s naïve, scoffs Megatron to herself, but then, more quietly—it’s endearing.

And Rodimus hates Starscream, Megatron contemplates, as the kiss takes a turn for the lewd, Rodimus moving into Starscream’s lap, biting her lip. One of them moans and Megatron, intimately familiar with the noises of both, is almost ashamed that she’s not sure who.

They’ve always hated each other, really, and now Rodimus is grinding down onto Starscream’s thigh; Starscream’s long hair is half in her face and half across Rodimus’ shoulder, Megatron is fairly sure at least some of it will wind up in Rodimus’ mouth at some point, if her own experience is any indication.

“I’m a Leo Rising,” says Starscream, pulling back, “I see bold and flashy when I look in the mirror.”

Rodimus smiles. “Seems we’re more alike than you might think.”

Starscream’s turned-on haze slides into slight horror.

“Who’s next,” asks a positively wasted Brainstorm, from Perceptor’s lap.

“Chromedome or Nautica,” says Velocity.

“I’ll pass,” says Chromedome, who’s never been particularly keen on big emotional displays.

“Right,” says Nautica, before spinning the bottle herself.

It lands on Cyclonus. 

“Please don’t ask about critical theory,” says Drift, “remember what happened last time.”

“Last time” had involved The Queer Art of Failure, Whirl, and six broken windows. 

Cyclonus pauses for a moment, contemplating. “What are your thoughts on the neoliberalization of the university and the subsequent packaging of students as consumers?”

“That’s not personal or emotional,” complains Pipes.

“Actually,” says Nautica, “for me, it’s both.”

Ravage grumbles lightly in her lap, and she continues, “My department is closing Ph.D. admissions due to an anticipated budget shortfall. The university is prioritizing programs that are seen to be more valuable in the workplace: business, engineering, chemistry. A variety of language and literature departments are facing a forced merger.”

“Sounds more like a trade school,” says Cyclonus, with no small amount of bitterness.

“And there’s nothing wrong with technical schools, of course,” says Nautica, “but the mission of the university has historically been to cultivate the mind, not to push students through the most marketable degrees. Students who, meanwhile, are accumulating massive loan debt like never before.”

Cyclonus nods, gravely, and says, “What activity would you like to do?”

Nautica smiles. “I thought maybe we could have a thumb war.”

“Very well.”

Cyclonus holds out her hand, and Nautica grasps it, both their thumbs in the air. Nautica does the traditional count-off and then their thumbs are moving cautiously towards each other, and back, and before long, Cyclonus pins Nautica down.

It only lasts a moment before Nautica slips out of her grasp, and flips her own thumb over a surprised Cyclonus’. “How…how did…”

“I’m well-trained in the art of wrenching out an upset.”

Next up is Pipes, who lands on Tailgate—“Can you kiss my elbow?” “Ok, why?” “I just realized I can’t kiss it myself.” “…Okay.”—and then it’s Rung and Skids, each of whom attempts to out-consent the other until an irritated Whirl finally shoves them together.

And then it’s Starscream’s turn.

Of course, it lands on Megatron.

“What would you tell Starscream,” Rodimus had said one evening, “If you ever had the chance to talk to her again? What would you say?”

Megatron had tried to avoid the subject, but as with most things Rodimus put herself up to, she wouldn’t give up that easily. She lay lounging across Megatron’s bed like a persistent cat and swatted her every time she attempted to lead the conversation in a different direction. “I don’t know,” Megatron had admitted, “I don’t want to think about it, if I’m being honest.”

“You need to clear your slate,” said Rodimus, “there’s a lot of shit you’ve got to put behind you. Why not start with your evil ex?”

“There are so many reasons not to start with Starscream.”

She looked at Rodimus, from whose pursed lips there issued a disappointed farting sound. “Oh, alright,” Megatron said, “I’d tell her I was sorry.”

“Sorry for?”

“Sorry for everything I did and didn’t do.”

“I don’t know, Megs,” said Rodimus, “That sounds like some bullshit.”

And she’d left it there. It was almost like Rodimus had known it wasn’t time to release that particular vial of poison just yet.

Now, Megatron looks at Starscream, really looks at her, sitting under the too-flattering lighting in Drift’s living room and surrounded by mutual friends, acquaintances, and (former?) enemies, and she says, “Are you happy?”

Starscream reacts like she’s been shot. “Did you just ask if I was happy?”

“It’s not meant to be a difficult question, I’m sorry, I can pick something else.”

“You’re giving me options?”

“I’ve been lead to believe that’s the charitable thing to do, yes.”

Starscream appears to take a deep breath. “You know,” she says, “you asked me that same question once, some time ago. Under, I might add, very different circumstances.”

Megatron feels her face heat up. She remembers. “Forget it,” she murmurs, “give me a second, I’ll think of something.”

“I’m not unhappy,” says Starscream.

Wheeljack nearly places a hand on her shoulder, and then doesn’t. Megatron sympathizes. Starscream has always been a hard one to read--seemingly transparent in her emotions, but liable to lash out at the slightest error in judgement. 

“Is there anything you’d…prefer to do?”

Starscream tilts her head, in that almost adorable way Megatron had pined after, years ago. “Do?”

“You know. For the consent-based activity.”

She shrugs her shoulders, almost violently. “I don’t care. It’s all the same, anyway.”

They had been good together, once. Hadn’t they? 

“Do you mind if I just,” Megatron begins, “if I just…touch my forehead to yours? A bit?”

Starscream lets out a single bark of laughter. “Oh, Megatron. Nostalgia?”

The foolishness of the request overwhelms Megatron with the heat of a sunburn. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

But Starscream is still steeping a quiet half-smile. “I didn’t say no.”

Megatron hadn’t realized that surprise could feel like scooting towards each other on the wood floor, free from any expectations.

Whirl chokes on a chortle, and Tailgate really does smack her then, something that Whirl seems to enjoy just enough to behave.

And then, Starscream is right in front of Megatron, dark eyes narrow with suspicion as always, and Megatron leans forwards. 

She closes her eyes. There’s the light firmness of Starscream’s forehead as she moves to rest it against Megatron’s own. Megatron breathes out. 

Nobody moves, for a moment, and then--

Starscream’s lips, slightly chapped, against her own. Sensation moves faster than thought, and Megatron responds before she can consider any potential consequences. 

Old habits bloom, Starscream nipping Megatron’s tongue as it probes her lips. Breaking away is farthest from Megatron’s mind, especially as Starscream loops her arm around Megatron’s neck and pulls her closer.

Megatron can feel Starscream’s vertebrae against her hand, laid out like a stanza, and with each movement of their lips she soothes circles into her skin. 

When they finally break apart, Starscream says, “Too soft.”

“Wasn’t time for a safeword,” Megatron tries to joke. 

The entire room is still staring at them. Rodimus looks like she’s just come to some sort of understanding. 

“Safeword,” murmurs Starscream thoughtfully, “Is that how you’re running things these days?”

A strand of derision weaves its way through her words, and Megatron says, “Should I go?” 

“We,” says Rodimus, gently, “we should go.” 

Megatron listens. 

Sometimes it’s best when Rodimus gets what she wants. 

Nodding farewell to the pile of throw pillows that makes up the group’s seating arrangement, Megatron follows Rodimus to the front door, silence in their wake. 

Starscream doesn’t watch them leave. 

“I could be angry with you,” Rodimus points out as they round the corner onto Flushing. 

“There’s nothing I did that you didn’t also do with Starscream,” says Megatron flatly, “and then some.”

It’s a thick summer night, humidity weighting the air in their lungs and pressing onto their skin. Rodimus kicks a dented and empty can of Red Bull with what appears to be as little energy as she can muster. “S’different,” she says, “We laid out consent beforehand.”

“You didn’t ask me,” says Megatron. 

Rodimus raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? I don’t, usually, when I kiss other people, so...you’ve never minded.”

“I didn’t mind,” says Megatron, truth seeping out from her lips, “I was just making a point.”

“You thought it was hot,” snickers Rodimus. 

Megatron smiles at the rising crescent moon. “I thought it was hot.”

“Well,” says Rodimus, “it’s a stupid point.”

“What?”

“Me not asking you for permission, or whatever. Deflection, Megs,” she mock-sighs, “Typical.”

They cross the street to avoid the group of men smoking outside the dive bar. “But you’re not angry with me.”

Rodimus stops walking. “Look. Whatever it is you needed to work out with her? Seems to me like you’re actually working on it, for once. Isn’t healthy to let that kind of thing fester.”

“You said you could be angry with me. Hypothetically.”

Shrugging, Rodimus spins on her heels and jaywalks across the intersection to Megatron’s apartment. “I could be a lot of things. I get it, Megatron. Starscream’s hot.”

Megatron snorts and opens the door to the building’s foyer. “By hot, you mean arrogant, insufferable, and a bane to lesbians everywhere.”

“I assumed that was obvious.” 

The walk up to the fourth-floor apartment, as is so often the case, is accompanied by a decrease in conversation and an increase in Rodimus’ hands on Megatron’s ass. 

By the time they close the apartment door, Megatron has a hand down the front of Rodimus’ jeans, and Rodimus is backed up against the wall, flushed with kisses and already panting. 

Megatron doesn’t dream that night. 

When Rodimus emerges from the bathroom the next morning, hair dripping wet and purple, Megatron doesn’t ask why.


End file.
